The doors don’t have signs. The lights flicker like they’re just as tired as I am. And of course I have no idea where I came from. Directionally challenged in an outlaw compound. Super smart.
But whatever. I’ll grid search the place if I have to. Room by room. Building by building. How hard can it be to find one six-foot-two tattooed man in a place where everyone is six-foot-something and tattooed?
When I come to a door, I push it open without knocking. The room is bright, sterile. Chains is hunched over someone’s arm, needle buzzing like a fly trapped in a jar. He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t even pause.
There’s a woman sitting near the wall. She sees me. Immediately. Like she was waiting for me to walk in.
And yeah—I remember her. The ceremony. The bullet.
“Thanks,” I say, fingers brushing the necklace she gave me like it means something. Like I’ve figured it out.
She shrugs. “Time to let go.”
Cool. Vague wisdom from the woman with the haunted eyes. Great.
“I’m Savannah,” I say, because I don’t know what else to do. “You know that already, but?—”
“You want my name.”
“Well, that’s usually how it works.”
She almost smiles. Not quite. “Haven’t seen him.”
Flat. Final. No curiosity. No warmth. The needle buzzes. Chains doesn’t react.
I keep going anyway. “He’s not in the clubhouse.”
She shifts. Just slightly. Looks down at the ink. Watches the machine instead of me.
And I get it. That’s the answer.
I turn to go.
But then—behind me—“Lita.”
That’s all she says. Just the name. No explanation. No tone.
That’s all I get. But I smile anyway.
Not for her. For me.
Because I walked into that room still hoping someone might help. And I’m not making that mistake twice.
Outside, I let out a breath as I walk, wondering where else I could look. My new-to-me boots crunch on the gravel as I head toward the row of buildings near the fence line, no real plan in mind. Just walking like I’ve got somewhere to be. It’s either that or stand still and look confused, and I’m not handing that win to anyone.
One of the doors up ahead stands out—heavy, reinforced. I walk up to it, curious, and come face to face with a guy with a shaved head, the woman who gave me the handkerchief, and the very specific smell of gun oil and steel.
The man is sorting magazines into crates with the kind of precision I've only seen in military movies. His hands move with automated efficiency, like he's done this ten thousand times.
The handkerchief woman stands beside him, pen scratching across a clipboard. She's checking things off a list, murmuring numbers that the man confirms with single-syllable grunts.
These two people are a lesson in contradictions, a study in contrasts that makes me wonder how they even inhabit the same universe, let alone the same relationship.
The woman’s got this vintage thing going—cardigan, manicured hands, fresh, clean-girl face. Meanwhile the guy looks like he was forged in a machine shop and never came out. It shouldn’t make sense. But somehow it does. Like a Sunday picnic where the potato salad is laced with C4.
I wait at the threshold for a beat, not wanting to startle anyone in the vicinity of automatic weapons. The woman notices me first. She smiles—an actual smile with actual warmth. It's so unexpected I almost take a step back.
"Excuse me," I say, using my polite voice. "I'm looking for Legion."
